


I'm Taking It From You

by 7r33h0u53r3fu633



Series: Giving and Taking [2]
Category: Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape, Spit As Lube, Vomiting, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 10:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17848193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7r33h0u53r3fu633/pseuds/7r33h0u53r3fu633
Summary: The aftermath.





	I'm Taking It From You

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a lot shorter and a lot more... visceral. Heed the warnings, as always.

Andrew woke up to a pounding head and the sound of his shower going. His ass was sore, and his thighs felt over stretched, as if he’d been working out too hard. He didn’t remember much from the night before - there had been drinking, and there had been… oh. 

Oh.

it all came crashing down on his head, and he pressed his face into his pillow. 

Fuck.

If he lay here, pretending to be asleep, maybe Steven would go home. Assuming that was Steven, and someone else hadn’t broken in to use his shower. One could always hope, right? It was a state of affairs, when the thought of his apartment being broken into was less terrifying than having to confront his best friend. His best friend, who had raped him the night before. Who had _drugged him_ and raped him. 

Andrew’s stomach lurched, and he was on his feet and almost _running_ to the bathroom before he had a chance to think. He didn’t want to be in the same room as Steven right now, but he wanted to throw up in his bed even less. He pushed the door open, dropped to his knees, and was violently, painfully sick.

“Andrew!” Steven’s voice was concerned. “What’s happening?” There was wetness against Andrew’s bare side, and then there were hands in his hair, pulling it back. 

Andrew’s skin crawled, and he rolled his shoulders, trying to get away. Except he was also throwing up so hard that it was coming out of his nose, and this was… well, this wasn’t the time to try to get away. He didn't’ want another mess to clean up. He already had what he suspected was dried lube on the backs of his thighs, or maybe it was dried come. Best not to think about that.

Steven was dripping shower water down Andrew’s back, and it was warmer than sweat, and making Andrew queasy. It was all too much - too much sensory input, too much reminding him of last night… fuck, he needed to be alone. Completely alone. And then he needed to… what? He wasn’t sure. Scrub his skin raw? Cry? Throw up some more? Call the police? 

“You drank too much,” Steven said, in a solicitous tone. “Are you gonna be alright?”

“Stop touching me,” Andrew said, and his voice was rough and creaking.

“What?” The hands on the back of Andrew’s neck were very warm - almost as warm as the vomit dripping down his chin.

“Stop touching me,” Andrew said again. 

“Why?” Steven’s hands withdrew.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” Andrew said. He wasn’t looking up at Steven - he stared down at the toilet bowl, at the stinking mess that had come out of him. It was better than the alternative. 

“Why not? We were -”

“You raped me last night,” Andrew said. He said it calmly, levelly, but there was wetness on his face. Tears from throwing up, or was he having a whole bunch of feelings? They were happening a long way off, whatever they were. 

He wanted it to stay that way. 

“What? No I didn’t,” said Steven. 

“You don’t get a say in this,” Andrew said, and now his voice cracked. “You raped me last night, you drugged me and you raped me.”

“It wasn’t rape,” Steven protested. “I love you!”

“You raped me,” Andrew said flatly. His mouth still tasted like bile. “You drugged my drink, you took me home, and you raped me.” 

“No, it’s not like that,” Steven insisted. “I mean, it was… it wasn’t as good as it _could_ be, but -”

“Steven, if you’re not out of my house in the next ten minutes, I am going to call the police.” Did Andrew mean it? He wasn’t sure. Did he have it in him? 

“You wouldn’t do that,” Steven said, and there was a wobble in his voice. 

“I will do it,” Andrew said, and he was very tired. He didn’t think he’d do it - he didn’t really _like_ the police, and he didn’t like explaining that _no,_ he hadn’t wanted it, yes he’d slept with other men before, but this time was different. 

“Let me just… rinse off,” Steven said, and then he trailed off. His voice was woebegone, and Andrew turned around in spite of himself, looking up into Steven's face. He looked singularly uncomfortable, and Andrew’s stomach twisted with guilt. Was that fucked up? Even though Steven had raped him, he still felt guilty for making Steven feel bad.

He remembered the look on Steven’s face, when Steven had pushed into him, and he almost gagged again. Then he did, bringing more stomach acid and who knew what else, as more tears dripped down his face. 

“Drew -” Steven began. 

“ _Out_ ,” Andrew said harshly. 

Steven made a distressed noise, but then there was the sound of him getting back into the shower, and hurried rinsing. Andrew stayed on his knees in front of the toilet, staring into its depths - he would rather stare at the yellow bile from his own stomach than have to look at his rapist. 

That was the rub, wasn't it? Steven wasn't his best friend anymore, or his co-host, or his awkward buddy figuring shit out. Steven was just the guy who had raped him. The guy who had drugged him and raped him. 

God, Andrew had to do laundry. Wash Steven's spunk out of the sheets. _He couldn't even make my life easier after violating my trust,_ trailed across Andrew's mind, and it was such a dumb, incongruous thing that he burst into ugly laughter. 

“You okay, Andrew?” The water was turning off, and the shower curtain was rattling as Steven drew it back. 

“Leave my house,” Andrew repeated. 

“But -”

“I swear to fucking Christ,” Andrew said, and his voice was cold and flat as a Minnesota winter, “if you are not gone by the time I'm done talking….”

Steven wasn't in the room anymore. Score one for the cold fury. 

Andrew stood up, drank a glass of water, flushed the toilet. He rubbed his aching temples, and then he sighed, There was a “slam” - that must have been Steven leaving. Unless Steven had let the door close so that Andrew _thought_ that Steven had left, but hadn’t actually left. Andrew didn’t see Steven as the type to do that, but then again, Andrew hadn’t seen Steven as a date rapist, so… _go figure_. 

Another hysterical laugh bubbled out Andrew, like a particularly bad gas bubble, and he shuddered, his whole body breaking out into goosebumps. What was he supposed to do with all of this? 

Laundry.

He’d do laundry, he’d take a shower, he’d… what, burn his everything? Go to the police? Talk to his boss? Quit his job?

Everything was just happening… to the left, and he didn’t know what to do. Might as well get the practical things done first though, right?

* * *

Andrew stripped his bed, went to the laundry room downstairs, shoving his sheets into the washer. He showered, scrubbing himself until his skin was nearly raw, and he washed his hair twice, to get the scent off.

He was going to have to go to work. He was going to have to go to work, talk to people, make nice with Steven, or else everyone would notice. How would anyone react, knowing he’d been raped by _Steven_. Fucking Steven, the sweet, innocent, religious virgin. 

Not so much a virgin anymore though. Or did it only count if you did it with a willing participant? 

Andrew pressed his face into the tile, and he let the hot water wash over him, drum down onto his head. He let it drown out all of the screaming inside, until he was pink and tender, and his whole body was on edge.

God, maybe he needed to get back on the horse. Suck some dick, eat some pussy, fuck until he could remember what it felt like to have his dick someplace that wasn’t Steven. He looked down at his dick - it hung soft and limp between his legs, probably still worn out from the night before. He needed to eat something, he needed to brush his teeth.

He needed to do a lot of things.

Maybe he needed to not need stuff. He needed to get stupidly drunk, or maybe he needed to never drink at all. Was this what they meant, about conflicting access needs? His whole self was one big competing access need. Not very handy. 

“That’s the problem,” Andrew said in his empty apartment. “He had the need to lose his virginity, and I had the need to not be that conduit. Go figure.” He was speaking out loud to the world at large, but the world at large wasn’t answering. Thank fuck, because that’d be too creepy.

This was all too creepy. Way too creepy. He needed to eat some food, and then he needed to… he didn’t know what he needed. But he was done right now. Just done.

He put the sheets back on the bed, slowly, carefully, and then he fell into it, curling in a ball. Nobody could touch him here. He was alone. That was all that mattered.

* * *

Andrew went to work. 

He went to work, he put on a face for his coworkers, and everyone gave him sidelong looks. Maybe he wasn’t as good at putting on the face as he thought he was, but Steven stayed away from him. It was pretty noticeable, too - several people commented, but they shut up when Andrew just looked at them. 

He was doing a lot of looks lately - quiet looks, angry looks, looks that didn’t have any particular emotion behind them. They were just there. He didn’t have a lot of emotions, did he? Or maybe he did, but they were all happening elsewhere.

He shaved his beard, contemplated shaving off the rest of his body hair, when he remembered the appreciative way that Steven had looked at it, but… effort. Effort, and interacting with bits of himself that he didn’t want to just yet. 

At least his boss wasn’t giving him any shit about it. Maybe they were picking up on all of the… well, everything. He just kept going. He kept existing. That was all that mattered, right? He kept existing.

He ate a lot of junk food - good food reminded him too much of Steven right now, and he didn’t need that. Go figure - the guy who raped him would kill his taste for truffles and good cheese. At least it was good for his wallet.

Maybe he’d get fat. He could live with being fat.

* * *

Three weeks after Steven drugged and raped Andrew (how had that become a benchmark in his life, like the death of his great-aunt, or graduating high school), Andrew sat home by himself, watching a movie. He sat on his couch, his feet on the coffee table, and he drank a bottle of beer. It was the first beer he’d had since he’d fallen over in the bar - he knew it was safe. No way someone could sneak into his apartment and drug his beer. 

… Andrew hoped that was the case, at any rate. He didn’t want to fall down the rabbit hole of worrying about the food that he would have to eat on camera with Steven, because he didn’t want to even think about eating with Steven ever again. Having Steven near anything he consumed made him want to hide in a hole someplace very, very far away.

But right here and now, he was home. It was a Friday night, and he didn’t have to go to work. He didn’t have to see Steven for a few days. Steven was just… _elsewhere_ , and it wasn’t Andrew’s problem. He wished he could be more… normal about all of this. He could get over it, or not get over it, or just… deal. Not exist in this weird limbo. Maybe he needed to tell his boss.

He probably needed to tell his boss, although the idea of explaining to a whole bunch of higher ups _so my sweet innocent best friend drugged my drink and raped me, can we not make our lucrative show that’s making you money?_ made him want to curl up and die all over again. It was going down like the metaphorical lead balloon, and he’d be fucked. He’d be forced to keep working with Steven, and everyone would know he was working with the guy who had raped him. 

It was simpler to think of it that way, wasn’t it? Steven was just “the guy who raped him,” not his best friend, the guy he did stupid food cheers with, the guy he’d give advice to. Or maybe he just wasn’t in his body right now - maybe he was still floating to the left of his own shoulder, the way he had been when Steven’s dick had pushed into him. He sighed, scrubbing his face with both hands, and he tried to get more comfortable on the couch. 

“I’m gonna go to therapy,” he told the room at large. “Go to therapy, work out my issues, never eat out again.”

The room didn’t say anything, thank fuck.

And then there was a knock on his door. Andrew sat up, and he looked at his door, looked at the clock. It was after midnight - he’d made his own dinner, hours ago - he hadn’t ordered anything. 

Right.

Okay.

What the fuck was going on?

“Andrew,” said a voice on the other side of Andrew’s door, and Andrew’s stomach turned to ice, dropping down towards his feet. “Andrew, c’mon, talk to me.”

It was Steven. Steven was outside of Andrew’s door, and he was… was he drunk? Steven didn’t get drunk. 

Steven also didn’t date rape, so that showed what Andrew knew, didn’t he? 

“Andrew, I just want to talk,” Steven said, and he was being loud. He was being loud enough that Andrew’s neighbors would hear it, and Andrew was clenching his jaw. He was clenching his fists, too - his knuckles were turning white, bulging against his skin. “C’mon, please?”

There was more banging on the door, and he was getting louder. 

“Andrew, I _love_ you, you have to know that. I’m sorry for what I did, I didn’t -”

Andrew was unlocking the door. Why was he unlocking the door? And now he was looking into Steven’s face, and Steven’s face was wet with tears. 

“Why are you here?” It was more words than Andrew had used for Steven since he’d kicked Steven out of his apartment. 

“I needed… I needed to talk to you,” said Steven, and he was just sidling into Andrew’s apartment. Just coming in, not asking, just _assuming_ he could. 

Andrew’s fists itched. He wanted to punch Steven, except no, he didn’t, because he wasn’t the kind of man who did that. He didn’t think with his fists, even when he so desperately wanted to. “Why are you here?” Andrew repeated. He sounded like a broken record. 

“I just… I needed to talk to you. There’s been a mistake. Because I love you, and you love me too, I _know_ that I love you, that’s how it works. We love each other, we… we take care of each other. It’ll work. We just have to… you know, work it out.” 

“You raped me,” Andrew repeated, his tongue numb. “That isn’t a thing that you can work it out.”

“I didn’t rape you,” Steven insisted. “It doesn’t count. You came, it’s… it’s not rape if you have an orgasm. And I _know_ you love me, I can see it - even the viewers can see it!”

“I don’t love you, Steven,” Andrew said. His lips were numb now. 

“You _do_ ,” Steven insisted. “You do love me, you know you love me. I love you, we’ll be together, it’ll be perfect.” His hand was on Andrew’s cheek now, and it was soft. It shouldn’t have been. The hands that raped Andrew shouldn’t have been warm and soft, they should have been… what? Cold? Hard?

Andrew’s hand was on Steven’s wrist. Huh. When had that happened? 

“I love you, Andrew,” said Steven. “I love you so much.”

“No, you don’t,” said Andrew, and then he was dropping Steven’s wrist. All of Steven was lowering, actually. Now Steven was on his knees in front of him. How about that. 

“I love you,” Steven said, and now he was.. .unbuckling Andrew’s belt. He was swaying with drunkeness, and he was unbuckling Andrew’s belt, and Andrew wasn’t doing anything to stop ti. He should have been, but he wasn’t. He was just standing there, mute, as Steven unzipped him, unbuttoned him. As Steven drew his cock out. “I love you, Andrew. And… and I won’t go to Hell for it, and neither will you. We’ll make each other happy. I promise.” 

Andrew gave a convulsive shudder, leaning back against the door. His hands were just… at his sides, not doing anything. He probably should have been doing something, come to think of it. But Steven’s breath was misting across the top of his cock, and then Steven’s hot, wet mouth was on his cock. 

_This again,_ popped through Andrew’s brain, and he actually rolled his eyes. Anger roared through him, like a match dropped on a puddle of gasoline, and Andrew’s hands were on Steven’s head. They were holding on to Steven’s hair - _yanking_ Steven’s hair. His cock was still soft, but it was all the way in Steven’s mouth now, and Steven’s nose was pressed against his crotch. Steven was gagging. Andrew thrust forward savagely, again and again, and there was wetness against his belly - drool, and maybe tears. 

Good.

“I don’t love you,” Andrew said again, and he looked down into Steven’s eyes. “I know you think I do, for whatever reason. I don’t.” His cock was beginning to get hard, in the sucking heat of Steven’s mouth, down Steven’s throat. “I might hate you a little bit, actually. Is that why you came here?”

Andrew was… cold. He was cold all over. His cock was hardening, and Steven’s throat was squeezing around it as he gagged, drool dripping down Andrew’s groin, soaking into his pubic hair. He thrust his hips forward, harder, and Steven gagged again, harder. 

“I know you think you love me, for some reason. I don’t know if you can even understand what love is.” He thrust forward again, and there was a touch of… something… unpleasant against his cock - a rush of something acidic, and... chunks. 

Ew.

He pulled his cock out of Steven’s mouth, making a disgusted noise. 

“You just need to be more delicate,” Steven said, and his voice was rough, croaking. There was a dribble of something unpleasant down his chin, and his eyes were still streaming, as was his nose. He didn’t look like the suave, funny host of a YouTube show. He looked like any other stupid kid who thought he could deepthroat. “I was delicate on _you_ , Andrew.”

Andrew imagined hitting Steven in the face, dismissed it. He could feel the energy bunching up in his arm, his arm tensing up, then relaxing. He wasn’t the type to do that. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this - there was stomach acid on the head of his cock, and he was still so cold. It was like he’d swallowed ice. 

“Delicate,” Andrew said flatly, and his hand was on top of Steven’s head, in Steven’s hair. He was shoving Steven down, forcing him down lower. “I think I’ve had enough of your fucking _delicate_.” He was… shoving Steven down lower. Face down, ass up - not a bad look for the fucker.

He was angry. He was coldly angry, and he was getting down on his knees. Why was he getting on his knees, when his knees were going to hurt? He was watching himself do things. 

“This… this isn’t how I thought it’d be,” Steven said, in a trembling, anxious voice. His pants were down - when had Andrew pulled them down? Steven’s pants, Steven’s underwear. Andrew had to be the one to do that. He was… he was looking down at Steven’s ass, round and soft. Maybe if it didn’t belong to _Steven_ , he’d have been into it. 

He still had a hard on that could be used to hammer nails. Cold anger, pulsing through his body like the tides in the ocean. He held Steven’s ass open, looking down dispassionately. He’d been there already, at least in theory. The head of his cock nudged against it, and Steven made an anxious noise.

“We don’t have any lube,” Steven said. “You shouldn’t… I read up, you shouldn’t do it without lube.” 

Andrew spat on Steven’s hole. He didn’t think about it before he did it - he just spat, and Steven made a disgusted noise, jerking away. Or at least, trying to. Andrew’s hands were on his hips, hard enough to bruise.

“You don’t fuck someone when they’re drunk,” Andrew said, and he spat again, which made Steven shudder convulsively. “You don’t do that, or it’s rape.” He held Steven’s ass open, rubbing the head of his cock up and down against Steven’s hole. It twitched, trying to pull him in. “You don’t want this, Steven. I’m raping you.”

“No,” Steven said, and he shuddered. “No, I… I want it. I want you to… to fuck me. Please.” 

Andrew spat on his own cock, jerking it quickly, efficiently, wetting it just enough. He pressed the head of his cock forward, breaching Steven’s hole, then shoving himself inside in one, rough movement.

He met some resistance - he hadn’t done anything but spit on Steven’s hole, but Steven was holding him tightly, squeezing him. He was shaking, as he began to draw his hips back, then slammed them forward. “I’m raping you, Steven,” he said flatly. “This is me, raping you. You’re being raped.”

“It’s not rape,” Steven insisted. “Fuck, Andrew, you… feel….” 

Andrew began to thrust harder, one hand going to the back of Steven’s head, forcing it into the floor. “This is rape,” Andrew repeated. “This is rape. I’m raping you, Steven. I’m doing what you fucking did to me. This is what you fucking _get_.” 

There was unexpected rage in him, and it wasn’t just cold, dispassionate rage, now. There was some heat in the midst of it. _That was a plague,_ he thought, incongruous. _Fire wrapped in ice._ Steven would know about that. Andrew was tempted to ask Steven about that, but he didn’t want to hear that.

He didn’t want to hear anything - even the moaning gasps that Steven was making were making him sick. He shoved all of his weight down onto Steven’s back, his cock as deep as it would get, willing himself to come. It wasn’t exactly a dry fuck - there was some slide, some push and pull, as Andrew shoved his hips forward. Steven was shuddering under him, almost sobbing. 

“It hurts, Andrew, slow down,” Steven said, and there was a choking, whining tone in his voice. 

“It’s rape,” said Andrew, trying to sound dispassionate. “It’s not supposed to feel good. It’s supposed to hurt, Steven.” Andrew’s cock was beginning to thicken, throbbing in time with his heart. 

“Andrew, it’s not rape, I want it. I want it so badly, I… you feel so good, Andrew, don’t -” Steven broke off, and then Andrew’s cock was being seized by pulsing, squeezing heat. Steven’s cries had gone deeper, more guttural, and Andrew drove forward harder, yanking back at Steven’s hair. 

“You just came,” Andrew said flatly, because there was no other answer to why Steven had gone so limp, sweat slicking across his skin. “You came from me raping you. You sick fuck, you raped me, you… you….” Andrew lost his train of thought, lost everything in the bright, hot flash of his orgasm - more heat racing down his spine, to shoot out of his cock, deep inside of Steven. 

“It’s not rape,” Steven repeated, and he reached back, to pat Andrew on the hip. “I love you.”

And Andrew pulled out, and went to throw up again, because disgust - at yourself, at someone else - is a visceral thing.


End file.
